A Trim Here
by ArouraLeona
Summary: After meeting and witnessing the death of another Invisible 9 trooper, Corporal Randel's self esteem takes a nosedive. As always, his only saving grace is the strength of Lieutenant Alice L. Malvin. But, no matter how noble, a woman is still human and capable of mistakes and failure. With the gold on his Alice idol flaking off, how will his life change? *Chapter 12: Crumble* (R/A)
1. 1: Kittens

A Trim Here

Chapter 1

Kittens

Two of his cats had died. He sat under the bridge and watched the rest of them eat; sadness overwhelmed him. They'd just been kittens, after all. Small things, helpless. Prey to a large tom who wanted what they had: protection and sustenance. It didn't matter that Randel would have happily fed him, too. The tom wanted what he wanted and decided to take it.

Well, decided as much as any feral cat ever decided anything.

But, Randel thought, a cat is a cat. They don't think like men. But men...

He had failed to save the kittens, and that failure was a harsh reminder of his failure two months before to keep the armory storehouse from catching on fire. The Lieutenant and sublieutenants Oreldo and Martis had made it to safety, but that woman... her scream, the last sound before the explosion, would become a staple in his nightmares. He had failed to save her, too.

Absently, he picked at the fraying bandage on his cheek. When he realized what he was doing, he forced his hand down. Nurse Rosetta wouldn't be happy with him if he took the bandage off early. And he didn't like to make her upset. She could be frightening.

Not as much as the Lieutenant, though. She was angry with him again. Injured. Too often and too much damage. Shouldn't have been so close to the blast zone.

But he had wanted to save that woman. She had been so broken. So mad. But he understood her; she was filled with a terror and a manic drive to act. 919 STT (Stereo Tactics Trooper) – Krysta. His sister, in as much as it mattered. In as much as it would ever matter. Her scream, that shriek that perforated both his eardrums, haunted him still.

The cries of the kittens caused him no physical pain, but they hurt just as much. If he wasn't so big, maybe he could have gotten to them faster. Stopped the tom. Saved those two little lives.

Sublieutenant Oreldo would tell him that they couldn't save everyone. And the Lieutenant was starting to give him pitying looks again, exactly as she had following 908 HTT – Hans' death. Another passing that haunted him. He was dedicated to war relief. He believed in what the Lieutenant said. But each body he left behind him only made him heavier. Made him slower. Hunched his shoulders and pulled at his heart.

Randel covered his canteen and stood, "Don't worry I'll be back with more food tonight. Be careful."


	2. 2: Tardy

Chapter 2

Tardy

"Corporal! You are _late!_"

Randel hunched further and cast his eyes downward. She was right. He had spent longer than he meant to feeding his cats, and so had come in late. Sublieutenant Oreldo was already there when he arrived, and that meant bad things for him.

"Uh, sorry, Lieutenant..."

"Don't 'sorry' me! Explain yourself!"

"Well, uh, you see..."

"Speak up, Corporal!" she whipped her dagger from it's sheath and stabbed the desk beside him. Exactly where he had been looking. She was good.

"Well," he shifted, "I was f..."

"Oh, leave him alone, LT." Oreldo stood, lithe as always, and slapped his shoulder. "It's not like he comes in late all the time-"

"Unlike _some_ people," sublieutenant Martis muttered.

"-after all. Can' you cut the big guy some slack?"

Randel appreciated the help, but there was no question of Oreldo's winning smile working on the Lieutenant. She turned that fierce gaze on the shorter man and yelled at him instead. Randel appreciated that, too.

"Of _course_ I can't 'cut him some slack', you idiot! All soldiers of the Imperial Army should be punctual! It shows our pride in our military and in our unit!"

Oreldo waved a hand at her and sat back down. Martis, too, turned away and resumed whatever paperwork he had been working on when Randel entered the room.

"Ma'am?" Randel tried, but the meek tone wasn't working on her any more than sublieutenant Oreldo's smile.

"Don't '_ma'am_' me, Corporal. For your tardiness you will be in charge of getting the supplies for tonight's ration drop. Do you understand?!"

"Ma'am!" he snapped a salute.

She turned her back to him, seeming to forget his very presence. He knew that wasn't true. She was a soldier, a fighter, and a good one at that. She would never forget he was there. Her instincts were superior to almost anyone he had ever come across. But she was determined to ignore him.

He wanted to reach out. Put his hand on her shoulder. He wanted to speak, to call her attention back to him. He hated when she was mad at him. Hated when he did something wrong; hated when he made her yell.

But … but there was also some pleasure in it. Those clear, blue eyes. Piercing. Certain. She never seemed to see what was in front of her, but instead projected her vision of what should be on the world. Each irregularity was stamped out with the swing of her blade and the sharp lash of her tongue. She would set the place to right. He had faith in her.

He followed her order, going to requisition supplies for the ration drop they had planned for the night. It wasn't easy for him; the supply unit was still very uncomfortable with having him near. The more physical soldiering teams were quick to stand up to him and prove they were undaunted by his bulk, but that wasn't so with the more civilian-style departments. Requisitions and even some of the hospital staff were still cautious in his presence, so he ended up trying to make himself even smaller than normal. Hunching his shoulders and twiddling his thumbs until he nearly folded in half. Not looking a single one of them in the eye and speaking only in low mumbles.

It had been getting better, or so he thought. But he came back from the last mission and his battle with 919 in bad shape. Worse even than his confrontation with any of the tanks. Worse than when 908 turned that flamethrower on him. He had been in the epicenter of an armory explosion, and that had left a mark or two.

The shoulders had popped right back into place. The broken right shinbone splinted, the hole in his lung patched, the blood replaced, the ears stuffed with cotton. All of it came out alright in the end. Except for the fact that his face was more of a mess than usual.

The entire left side of his face was burned raw. Nurse Rosetta had kindly made sure that ointment was applied and a new bandage was secured every day, but that hadn't fixed the problem. The scars, Randel knew, scared people as much as his size. Cats didn't mind the scars, and they got used to his body after a time. People took longer. A lot longer. The young men and women working in supplies still had a long way to go before they would be able to deal with him without terror.

He didn't like scaring people, but he would do anything the Lieutenant ordered. She didn't seem afraid of his face. Only sad. She was often sad when she looked at him. He wished that she wouldn't be sad. Those eyes that looked on most of the world in a way that demanded work and betterment, only saw him as a thing to be pitied. He didn't like that.

He wanted her to look at him and see something worth fighting for.


	3. 3: Roses

Chapter 3

Roses

He returned to the office triumphant, holding a note guarantying that supplies would be ready and packed for their mission when they geared up at 19:00 hours. It was a little late to start rationing, but as they were running a moving soupline that night, they would probably be quicker than usual.

The Lieutenant took the receipt without word or, really, acknowledgment. It wasn't wrong that she act like that, getting supplies wasn't even a mission, but he knew he was more of an overgrown puppy around her. All he wanted from her was praise. Because if she told him he had done well, then he knew – without a shadow of his own swirling doubts and uncertainties – that he was where he should be.

He touched the lantern, discretely, when he sat back down at his desk. He was always careful with the chair, one day he expected the thing to break under him. That carefulness allowed him a moment, everyday, when he could take stock of himself.

He was a killer. What he was embodied the purist form of war madness. Who was he to think he could contribute to war relief. To Lieutenant Malvin's great belief in the greatness of the future Empire? World. He was overwhelmed that she let him stand in her presence.

"Okay," Captain Hunks drew their attention. "After your work tonight, you all will leave for the southern border. We have reports of bandits regularly hitting caravans carrying migrant workers as they travel from farm to farm. Not only does this disrupt those people directly in the bandits' attacks, but threatens this year's food yield. I don't think I have to go into detail about what this will mean for the price of supplies in the coming seasons."

"The souplines are long enough," sublieutenant Martis said with a look of horror.

Sublieutenant Oreldo nodded his agreement, "Yeah, and gettin' longer every single day. Cold autumn means a bad winter."

"Okay! Without a good harvest in the southern farms, the deathtoll around the country will rise, and we –Pumpkin Scissors- cannot allow that to happen! These bandits care nothing for the welfare of the people, and think only of themselves. This cannot stand! Let's go!"

"Uh, LT? Are you forgetting something?" Oreldo was smirking.

"Of course not, Oreldo."

"The rations," Randel muttered.

"Speak up, Corporal!"

"The rations, ma'am. Tonight. We were going to … we were going to go feed..."

Alice … uh, the Lieutenant … roared, "How can we feed people here if there is no food?!"

Captain Hunks cleared his throat, "But the Corporal made sure there is food for tonight. You will leave after your first mission is complete. That's an order, Lieutenant Malvin."

She paused, and Randel thought she might argue with him, but he shouldn't have. The Lieutenant knew and respected the chain of command in the unit and was too loyal to Section 3 to disobey that command.

"Yes, sir, Captain." She whipped back around to face them, "But the moment we finish, it's off to face these bandits, understand? There will be no breaks to rest, _sublieutenant Oreldo_."

"Yes, ma'am," the sublieutenant sighed.

Randel's shoulders stiffened at the sound of such disrespect, but the Lieutenant ignored it, so he did as well. Lieutenant Malvin was as kind as she was honorable. She knew that Oreldo's attitude was mostly put on and did not fault him for that … well, most of the time.

"Twenty-two hundred hours, gentlemen! Be ready to go!"

"Yes, ma'am!" the three of them chorused as the door slammed behind her. Everything in the room rattled at the impact. That was when Randel noticed the small vase of tiny roses, barely the size of his thumbnail.

His brows bunched; where had those come from?


	4. 4: Certainty

Chapter 4

Certainty

They arrived at the southern farms at oh-eight hundred hours, approximation four hours late for the worker caravan. This made the Lieutenant very unhappy. After some time spent talking her down from her anger, they went to the nearest farm, barley, to interrogate the workers.

"Martis and I will talk to the Overseer and foremen. Oreldo, you and Oland handle the workers."

"Ma'am. We can't interrupt them when they're working. It would upset their bosses and possibly cost them pay. They won't talk to us if we try."

She took a deep breath while Martis and Oreldo both stepped away from him. He tensed, gritting his teeth and waiting for her criticism.

She smiled, "You're right, Corporal. Oreldo, you and Corporal Orland will wait and speak only to workers while on their breaks. Is that understood?"

"Ma'am!"

"Right, right," Oreldo pulled him away, probably worried he would say something else. But he wouldn't. Not for a little while. He wouldn't risk the warmth that spread through him any time he saw her smiling. Any time she was pleased with him.

"So, big guy ... having fun needling the LT?"

"What? Sir, I don't know what-"

"Hahaha! Don't give me that; it's obvious. The ball. The train. Commander Arvy. You've started treating her differently. Oh, it's not much, and I'm sure she hasn't noticed - LT's too straight forward for that - but you're changing, Corporal Oland."

Randel thought about what the sublieutenant was saying. "You think so, sir? I guess that might be true. But it's ... well, you said something to me. At that ball. Do you remember?"

"Yeah. I told you that the Lieutenant isn't perfect."

"Right. But she's still my superior officer. And she still has something I'm working for. Something I want more than anything."

"And what's that?"

"Certainty." He looked in the direction the Lieutenant had taken, but she and Malvin had already disappeared. "Small as she is, she has certainty."

"Certainty doesn't always make you right. Or even smart."

"I know, sir. I won't lean on her. Not like I did before. But she's still someone I look up to and respect."

He laughed, "That's not respect, big guy. Ahg," he slapped his forehead, "it's not like I actually thought you'd get it, after all. Why am I even wasting my time?"

"Sir?"

"Come on, big guy. We've got people to question."

"Yes, sir."


	5. 5: Bitterness

Chapter 5

Bitterness

"You're...not really an asset in situations like this."

Sublieutenant Oreldo shook his head as a group full of people cowered in front of him. Well, not in front of him. In front of Randel. Being eight feet tall was all well and good for an ATT, but it was troublesome for a man working in public relations. Fear of giants was instinctive. Especially when those giants were in uniform and carrying weapons. Even if that giant meant them no harm.

"Listen boy," one of the braver ones, the leader, addressed Oreldo, "we don't want nothin' t'do with your lot. Ain't a damn thing wrong here that you can do a damn thing about, so you and your monster can just shove on back to the capitol and deal with them politicians or some such. They're the real bandits."

"Ah, sir, you make a good point, but – unfortunately – Sections 1 and 4 are charged with any issue regarding the wealthy, nobility, and anything vaguely political. Me and my monster, here, being with Section 3, and you not being one of those politicians … well, I'm afraid we're stuck with one another."

"We've heard about the attacks, sir," Randel used his softest voice, "and we came to help."

"Help my ass, you giant. The army ain't helped nobody but themselves. Not never. Was in the army myself once; I remember what it was like. Wavin' around them guns there. Followin' orders, not givin' a damn where they came from. Well, I tell you where they come from. Some soft-handed noble, ain't never done a minute's hard labor, can't even wipe his own ass. Sending you to hush us all up so we don't stand up against nobody in one of those big houses."

"What are you talking about, old man? Big houses like a local lord's mansion? Is that what you're saying? What does your local lord have to do with bandits attacking the work force?"

A young woman put a hand on the man's arm, "They aren't bandits, sir. Not like you mean. They're a bunch of thugs, friends of Lord Pampelle's daughter, we think. Lord Pampelle isn't so bad, sir, but that daughter of his... Anyway, her friends come by sometimes, checking to make sure that each caravan has the proper amount of workers and supplies. The problem is..."

"The problem is, we always seem to have a bit too much food. And too many girls."

Randel almost growled at the last.

Oreldo's hands were clenched tight. His words were clipped, "Sounds like bandits to me. Just happens those bandits have money. You know where they can be found?"

"Down the hill from the lord's mansion. Clotilda isn't the mistress of the house, and I don't think her friends want to risk angering her father. There's a pretty big area there, enough that they can keep all the stuff they've taken. They'd need a pretty big area."

Randel got a bad feeling. Oreldo seemed to share it, "And what have they stolen that needs so much room?" Randel felt Oreldo's eyes on him, but he had his own turned away.

'Please, please don't let them have one.'

"Buncha trucks, mainly," the old man shrugged. "Take one every time. Don't need those anymore than they need anything else, but … some farm equipment, too. Guns, a'course. Lots'a those. And they got sacks of grain. Tons of the stuff. Just let it sit and rot. The bastards."

Oreldo sighed, "Come on, big guy. Let's go report to LT. Thank you for your help, sir, miss."

"I don't need no thanks from a capitol flunky."

"Father!"

"Sir," Randel bowed to the man and his daughter. He nodded to the others who were still eyeing him warily.

"Well," Randel waited to speak until they were out of ear shot. "What do you think, sir?"

"What I think is that we've got yet another spoiled brat abusing power."

"The Lieutenant isn't going to like that."

"Nope. And I know exactly how this is going to end up. I swear, this is going to end up killing me one day. You," he scowled, "will be in the hospital again. They should give you your own room. They should make you pay rent on the place." Another sigh, "Man, I hope we brought enough ammo."

"Well sir, if they've got as many guns as the man said, I'm sure we can get ammo from the bandits."

"Ugh. Stealing bullets from the people who want to shoot them at us. Yeah. That sounds like a great idea. Remember to tell the LT that as soon as you see her."


	6. 6: Self

Chapter 6

Self

It was no surprise to him or Oreldo that the Lieutenant had her sword out. They weren't close enough to make out her exact words, but it was obvious that she was giving one of her infamous speeches. The two of them moved double time to join her. Those speeches were often followed by showdowns and orders.

"Sublieutenant. Corporal. What did you find?" she asked before she should have known they were there. She truly did have excellent instincts.

"Lord's daughter and friends playing with commoners. The usual."

The three men standing before the Lieutenant's blade looked shocked. The biggest one, the one who was obviously well fed and who most likely slept in a good, soft bed and never had to worry about how he would take care of his family, looked horrified. Worried. No question he was in on it.

It was times like these that Randel missed his cats the most. Even that tom. Cats could be like that. Killing for the sake of killing, killing when they didn't need to eat. But Randel had never seen a cat kill and then not let something _else_ eat. Maybe there were cats out there like that. But Randel's cats ate only as much as they needed.

And anyway, they were cats, not people. People should know better, he thought. Kill for property, kill for food and water, resources. He understood that. He didn't like it, but he understood it. But this? Killing just to hurt, for no other reason than hurting. And this man, this man was just as bad. Letting others kill, watching it happen. Probably taking bribes to ignore it. No, that was no better.

"Why," Martis was asking, "worker caravans? They can't have much worth stealing."

"**Hold it**!" the Lieutenant shouted. The largest man was inching away. "You will not go anywhere. Corporal, watch him."

"Yes, ma'am," Randel's large, scarred, hand on the man's shoulder stopped him dead. Even if he could run, the fear he felt would not let him. Not with the shaking legs and the shallow breath. That fear...

Randel was used to it.

"Don't know why these people, LT. What did these guys say?"

"They say there are no bandits."

"Yeah, that's what ours said at first, too. They didn't seem to feel that a noble can be a bandit."

"The crimes committed by those who should rightly protect those under their own care..."

"Ma'am?" Randel interrupted her sudden daze. She would do this sometimes, slipping into her feelings of injustice done by her peers. Her own dignity and honor horrified by the fact that so many others in her position lacked even the slightest portion of that nobility. It wasn't safe, those moments of absence. Not in enemy territory. "What should we do, ma'am?"

"Technically, ma'am, our warrant doesn't include full rights to search and arrest anyone of the local noble house, especially not on their property." Martis was riffling through a thick sheaf of papers, "But _this_ says we have the right t engage the criminals if we witness the crime taking place, no matter the criminal's class or station."

"So we have to wait for an attack, eh? That'll be tomorrow morning then," Oreldo folded his arms behind his head. "Good. I could use a good rest."

"No rest; we need to get a look at the property of this lord. Are they well armed?"

"Not really, ma'am. Those people told the sublieutenant and me that they mainly had trucks and some guns."

"If those happen to be military issued arms," Martis adjusted his glasses, "we _would _be within our powers to seize them as stolen army property. Even suspected. As long as they, themselves, do not have a military background. With this lord's holdings being primarily farmland, it is quite likely that a good number of the people, the lord included, were exempted from the draft so that they could work the land and insure the Empire had at least some amount of harvest goods.

"After our run-ins with all of that next-generation weaponry," Martis continued, "Captain Hunks made sure to get that one for us."

The Lieutenant was nodding, "And this certainly feels familiar."

"You think this could be like the others, Lieutenant?" Randel shivered. Those never turned out well for him.

"A small property like this? Restless wealthy people with nothing better to do? Away from large towns with a fairly small, and generally weak common population? Going from farm to farm everyday. Staying in general housing with no homes of their own. They're very much at risk, gentlemen. At risk from anyone who sees anyone weaker than them as lesser people, as less than people, as not people at all. Yes, yes, I think this is exactly like those others, Corporal. And we better be well prepared when we face them. We move out now to survey the enemy camp. Seize what we can, and then, at dawn, we attack them before they can harm any more civilians."

Oreldo sighed, "I really wish you would shut your yap, four-eyes. Now, not only am I going to have to risk my neck – again – in the morning, but we're not even going to get a decent night's rest."

"Pumpkin Scissors, let's move out!"

Randel needed no convincing, but that lightening fast grin of hers was impossible to ignore. Even for the sublieutenant, ultimate slack-off or not.

"Ma'am!" the three men chorused.

"Your orders, Lieutenant?"

Well, Corporal Oland, you're with me; we'll go in from the front." That grin flashed again, quickly covered with what she surely felt was a more appropriate stern visage. She was in her zone, battle high. This was when she was at her best. "Pointless to try and hide you, anyway. Martis, Oreldo, you two cut around the perimeter and cover us. Wait for my signal. You'll need to grab the supply when the Corporal and I have them distracted."

"Yes, Ma'am," Martis nodded while Oreldo grumbled something about not being sure if he was getting off easy or not.

"I take it back about you not being useful, big guy. Keep close to the LT and be as intimidating as possible. She's worse than you, rushing in and all that."

"Yes, sir!"

"I'll have you know, I don't need him to be intimidating! But if we want..." her rant came to a mumbling end. "N-nothing. Let's go."

She waved the others away. The tails of her long coat spread out like wings around her as she started running for the mansion they could see in the distance. Randel stayed on her left flank. The Lieutenant was more than capable of protecting herself on both sides, but she only had one blade. He would watch her left while allowing her to focus on her right.

And he would watch her back. He would protect her, with everything he had in him. The good, and the bad. He heard, for only a moment, 919's scream. He felt the warmth of 908's fire on his face. He could smell the sweat from 903 as he spent his last moments staring down the barrel of his gun. He felt sorry for them. They hadn't made it off that battlefield, away from the war. Stuck as nothing but invisible soldiers, monsters of a monstrous war.

Thanks to Pumpkin Scissors, he had a second chance. Thanks to Pumpkin Scissors, he found a way to be more than 901. He would always be something of that monster, but he could use that monster to help and do good. He could be himself. He had a _self_ again.

Thanks to Pumpkin Scissors. Thanks to her.


	7. 7: Fun

Chapter 7

Fun

Finding their way to the camp, based on the directions of the farmers, was easy enough. it was obvious that they felt no need to hide. Everyone in the region seemed to know their location. No question that the enemy was the Lord's heir. Only that sort of person would feel no need to hide.

"But then, why take women?" Randel asked.

"Speak up, Corporal Oland."

"I was just thinking, ma'am, I wouldn't think that an operation run by a woman would steal women for ... I mean..."

"Hum, you have a point there Oland. But I'm sure we'll find out soon."

"Right."

He didn't feel quite right about this mission. It was more, he thought, than the lingering sadness he felt at losing nine-one-nine, and the way that recalled his memories of nine-oh-eight.

Alice - the Lieutenant - kept touching the back of her neck. Back of her neck, hilt of her dagger. No. Something _was_ going to happen in this place. No question. He touched his own hip, and the lantern there.

'Will I ever be able to let go? The light haunts me, and, yet, it is also my strength. My physical strength. It's a blindness, but a blind clarity. Forward, forward, forward, and without fear. It allows me to protect what needs to be protected without the fear that fills me when the light is out. During the war, I opened it at the request of the government. After the war, seeing what damages the war created while he saw nothing but that blue specter, was when I first began to question what this thing, this monster on my hip, created.

'But here, if I open it for her, only for her and Section III, that means I open it to protect. To repair the damages I helped make. Surely I can turn this lantern into something more than simple destruction.'

He'd already seen some changes in himself. As much as he used his lantern, he no longer killed every time he opened it. His shallow thoughts, that simple clarity he possessed while under the lantern's influence, were still a single path. Success. Winning. Fulfilling the objective. But, he was more and more often following a plan that ended, not in death, but subduing. He hurt, still. But it was better. _He_ was better.

"-and. Oland. _Randel_!" The Lieutenant had slowed and put her hand on his arm, trying to get his attention.

"Ah, sorry, ma'am."

"What is it? Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Yes." A thought occurred to him, and he used it to distract her from his moment of absence, "This lord. Do you think his daughter is really hiding from him? Wouldn't someone go to him if they thought it was only the daughter alone?"

"Maybe, maybe not. It would depend on how much they trusted the Lord before all of this started. We've seen before, people are wary of the powerful and wealthy. Hate or fear or both. For some it would be a huge gap to cross."

"You would cross it," he said. Her deep dignity and heavy burden of honor would remain with her in any world. Randel truly believed that she would have the same greatness, noble or commoner.

"Maybe, the response was soft. Her voice was tired from the running, "bu, it would be hard, don't you think,always worrying about your life and livelihood?"

Having done both, Randel only nodded. Third daughter and heir to her royal house and a distinguished warrior, she had likely never experienced either fear.

Randel's thoughts were stilled when they came in view of the camp.

"Thoughts, Corporal Oland?" her professional voice drove away the soft contemplation she'd spoken with before.

"Ma'am? I thought we were going to speak with them directly."

"And we are; I meant thoughts on the camp."

"Ah...they're not veterans, any of them."

"What makes you say that?"

"They have their backs to the forest. Even if there are none of them stationed in the trees with weapons and supplies, the forest is too great a weakness not to guard against. Too many shadows and too much cover. It's prime for an ambush." He nodded to the mansion visible on the hill to their right, "Low ground's a mistake, too. Even if the Lord is an ally. And if he's not..." he rolled his shoulders knowing she'd get his point.

"There has to be a path or a road. How would they get the trucks in?"

"My guess is that way," he pointed to a section of trees, just out of view. "Cuts through the trees. Also weak to ambush. These are amateurs, Lieutenant."

"They really aren't mercenaries or bandits, then. Wealthy, so they don't need the food, noght fighters left over from the war, so it's not some form of post-war mania like we saw with the chemical weapons troop at the dam. Could it be that they're doing this for ... _fun_?"

"Yeah."

Her jaw clenched so hard that he worried her teeth might break. She took a deep breath through her nose and then forced herself to relax.

"Okay, Corporal, we have suspects to question."

"Yes, ma'am!"


	8. 8: Veteran

Chapter 8

Veteran

"Explain yourselves!" Lieutenant Malvin demanded of the men in the camp as soon as she was in shouting distance. Randel had to repress a smile, she wasn't exactly subtle. Not that he, giant that he was, could really judge.

"Who do you think you are, bitch? You dare to address a member of the aristocracy in such a tone?"

"Member of the aristocracy? Don't make me laugh. Even if you are a noble, which is nothing but a hopeless lie, you would still be among the most disreputable of nobles. Your actions mark you as a criminal, and criminals deserve no other titles."

"Why you…" the man tensed as if to leap forward.

Randel put his body between him and the Lieutenant's raised blade. Ignoring her demands for him to move, he spoke to the man with glares and a low voice, "It would be a good idea … to reconsider. Attacking her won't get you anything. But death."

The words or – more likely – his size caused the man to back down. Randel didn't miss, though, the fluttering of his hand near his waist. The bandit was armed. Standard, military-handgun. No threat to him, but Alice could be wounded. He would keep an eye open.

And military issue … it seemed that they had at least one veteran in their ranks. This one was probably too young, no older than the Lieutenant. He might have gotten the weapon from a father or an older brother. The movements and the way the thing settled on his hip were awkward. Randel didn't think the bandit had much in the way of practice with that weapon.

A wannabe thug. Some of the tension went out of Randel's jaw. No doubt there were real bandits to back this kid up, but this one wasn't a threat to the Lieutenant.

"You will not talk to me like that you military whore!"

_And that's what I get for trying to understand people. Never was good at it. I should leave that to the sublieutenants and the Lieutenant. _

His body reacted without conscious thought, as it always did in such situations. Randel could remember, would remember sometimes, his early days in the military. Before joining 901. Back when he had to actually think about what he was doing before actually doing it. He was often surprised he didn't die. But even before all the help he got when hooking up with the 901st ATT, he had always been tough.

"Oland! How many times do I have to tell you not to do that?!" she pushed passed him and used her knife to brush aside the attacker's gun, forcing it from his hands and onto the ground.

"It's my job, ma'am. And it's okay. I'm used to it."

"No one should be used to being shot, Corporal. Stop being so careless with yourself."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Oh god, I don't know why I try. It's not like you're actually going to listen to me and stop getting hurt, will you?"

"Well, ma'am … even with State Section III, I'm still a soldier."

She sighed, "Right. Okay," she turned to the man who had taken their brief conversation as a chance to run. He hadn't got more than two steps before Alice, the _Lieutenant_, dropped him with a foot to the back of his knees. "Stop right there, you criminal. I won't have a single one of you get away, got that? Corporal Oland, take control of him. We'll stay here for a little longer; it is possible that some of his comrades might come to join him."

"Yes, ma'am."

The young man, more a boy it seemed than a man, was trembling when Randel pulled him up, securing his arms behind his back. No question, this was no battle-hardened soldier. Though, even someone like that might tremble before Lieutenant Malvin.


	9. 9: Hair

AN: A quick thanks to my reviewer 'burg' for all the support. Thank you!

Chapter 9

Hair

"Damn it," she muttered, "where are they?"

It had been an hour since they had caught Henrich, who had spent all of ten minutes attempting to withstand demands for his name. Not exactly the toughest opponent they had faced. The Lieutenant was pacing, hands clinched into fists, quickly running out of patience.

"Oland!"

"Ma'am?"

"What are your thoughts?"

"Well, I don't hear anything from the trees, so I'd say that's clear. Martis and sublieuteant Oreldo, too, ma'am. It might be a good idea to go back."

"Certainly not. We wait here. I want to meet this Clotilda. And I want to do it away from her Lord father."

"Ah," he agreed. "I think that might be her, Lieutenant." Randel pointed with his chin to the woman standing on the hill. She was flanked by two large men. Well. Large compared to the average height of the general population.

Randel tensed. What he'd said before about the camp being poorly located was true. The problem was that now _they _were the ones in the weak position.

"You're Clotilda, I presume?"

"Of course, Lady Alice." She laughed, "Surprised? You shouldn't be. Even among the lowest and far flung of noblewomen you are famous. Or, should I say, infamous. Look at you; those _horrid_ clothes, that … ugh … dirty face. And that _hair_," Clotilda tossed her own waist-length, ruby-bright hair over her shoulder to frame her long, pale neck. The woman was beautiful, and she knew it. "Well, it is absolutely shameful. One would never know you were better than a commoner, much less among those of the highest rank. Frankly, I'm surprised your family allows you off the grounds."

"And you?" Lady Alice, for she had taken on the tones and mannerisms more common to her aristocratic sisters than her usual authoritative presence, asked. "Are you allowed off the grounds, Lady Clotilda? Does your family support _your_ shameful, _criminal_, behavior?"

The woman's laugh was full-throated and loud. And surprisingly infectious. She was spoiled, certainly, but even Alice had that quality at times. Randle was having trouble connecting this airy, vain woman to the theft and abductions they were investigating. If she cared so much for her imagine, why would she risk it by associating with low-class thugs?

"Lady Clotilda, by your presence here, the rumors of your involvement are obviously true. Do you care to defend yourself?"

"Ah, but, you see, I need no defense. I have merely done what is expected of me as one of the rulers of this territory."

"Caretaker, holder, protector," Alice snapped. "The Emperor, and only the Emperor, is the one who rules."

"Oh, don't bother me with such tripe. When has the Emperor set foot in this place? No, it is I who rule."

"And what of your father?"

"What _of_ my father? A warrior who viewed the end of the war as a symbolic death. He refuses to see the possibilities that glow in this post-war paradise."

Post…war … _paradise_? Randel was more struck by that phrase than he had ever been by words. He had found 'war relief' and 'equality' and 'honor' confusing at first, but this was something altogether different.

Post-war paradise.

Yes. He saw, now, how this woman hid classist cruelty behind her lovely face.

Before the Lieutenant could respond to such a ridiculous statement, a gunshot rang out from the trees at their backs.

"Martis," Randel said, recognizing the gun. "Ma'am, I think we should—"

"Yes, Corporal, I know." The Lieutenant pointed at Lady Clotilda and ordered, "You will meet us at the house of your father at noon, tomorrow. If you do not show yourself at this meeting, it will be a sign of evasion, and will result in Section III releasing a writ of capture and arrest for you and any accomplices. Is that clear? We will take Henrich here as an incentive for your appearance."

"Of course, Lady Alice. Feel free to take that boy your giant holds, I could care less." Another toss of her red hair and loud burst of laughter, and Clotilda turned back to the mansion with her men at her back.

They watched her depart, and when she was out of sight, Randel held up their prisoner. "What should I do about him, Lieutenant?"

"We keep him. Clotilda might not care, but he might have comrades among the other bandits." Randel nodded and Lieutenant Malvin turned to look at the woods, "Could you tell where that shot was fired, Oland?"

"Of course, ma'am."

"Then, lead the way."

"Yes."


	10. 10: Hang

Chapter 10  
Hang

Even Henrich was shocked when they found them.

Martis was turned away. Stiff. Not unseeing, but distant. Still, he had the awareness to raise his weapon when he heard them coming.

"Martis, what are you-" the Lieuteant, like the rest of them, fell silent.

"Well, then," Oreldo tried for nonchalance. And failed. "We know what and where. The question now is why."  
"But...I don't understand."

Randel had seen more than one act of horror in his time during the war. And quiet a few after as well. For his co-workers, his colleagues, his ... his friends, who knew only the aftermath. He understood their shock.

"It wasn't a common practice, " he told them, his voice emotionless. "They were called swinging trees or a dangling wood. Rare. Because it took time. But psychologically," he touched the lantern on his hip, "destructive. I was told that Frost started the practice, but our troops also did such things."

Alice turned from the sight and vomited behind a nearby tree. From what Randel could sleep, he guessed Martis had done the same.

Randel touched the cold hand of the hanging corpse nearest to him. "901. 903. 908. 919. We weren't the only monsters in that war. We weren't even the worst."

They stretched out, spaced on the trees so that they wouldn't touch. Even in a high wind. They had been stripped of clothing, their faces sliced. From what Randel could tell, the mutilation was done after they died. That, at least, was ... not good, but it was something. Like the gun Henrich wore, this was a clear and gory sign that Lady Clotilda had a veteran in her group.

"Though..." Randel said through the sound of the Lieutenant's sickness, "even though it was done by some, it wasn't done all that often. For most of the soldiers it was ... a rumor. A story. I'd ... heard it told ... many times. Before I was recruited to the 901st and saw it with my own eyes."

"What..." Oreldo paused. The wind changed. The smell turned their direction. He waved everyone away from the scene.

"No," Alice growled. "We cannot leave them."

"We won't leave them, LT. Just stepping to the side to decide what to do next. "He turned to Randel," Why here? What's it for?"

"I don't know, sir. It doesn't make any sense. Not here. Not where there's no one to see it. No one to scare."

"It makes sense to someone," Martis retorted.

Oreldo cleared his throat, "We'll have to tell their families."

"Please, sir, not like this. I'll cut them down. We can lay them out. Cover them. Sir, they may be dead, but to see this ... it would ... be too much."

"It will have to go in the report," Martis was still turned away. "Something like this must be reported."

"I wonder why they shaved their heads," Oreldo mumbled.

"That's easy," Alice wiped her mouth. Her eyes were hard; her mouth was tight. "Jealousy. Vanity. Corporal Oland."

"Ma'am."

"Take care of these poor women, and do it quietly. I believe we will be visiting Lady Clotilda early than we expected."


	11. 11: Mission

Chapter 11

Mission

It was grizzly work. Randel's height made him able to reach and cut the ropes that kept the women and girls attached to the trees. The others had stepped back and covered their mouths and noses when the bodies fell into his arms. When they offered him a cloth, he refused.

"I'mused to it," he told them. And he was, but that wasn't why he refused. It seemed wrong, somehow, to cover himself when they were bare.

Over her initial revulsion, the Lieutenant went to take tarps and tents and blankets from the camp to cover the bodies. They all worked as quickly as they could. They needed to finish before the rest of the bandits returned.

"I don't want ... I don't want to leave them alone," Alice said as they finished.

"There aren't enough of us, Lieutenant," Martis spoke softly. "You have to take the lead with the Lord, both as Field Leader and a noble. You need at least two of us with you to...enforce the law."

Randel was sure that Martis had wanted to say "guard you", but had realized that wasn't an argument that would work with her. Not even close.

"He's right, LT. We can't risk one man here without backup. We don't know what could come out of these woods."

The Lieutenant's fists clenched and unclenched. "Yes. Yes, you are right. Damn. "She swallowed and turned with the familiar snap of her feet that sounded anytime she was being as _Imperial Soldier_ as she could.

He and his two co-workers followed her out of the trees and up the hill.

"How are we going to do this, LT? Are we just going to run in and accuse the Lord and his daughter of mass murder?"

Randel flicked his eyes from Oreldo to the Lieutenant. The sublieutenant was doing what he could to subtly steer her away from her usual method of confronting suspects.

"If they're guilty..."

"But, ma'am," Martis was far more respectful, "we have no evidence that the Lord is guilty. We have suggestions from witnesses and your conversation to hold against Lady Clotilda. It's not rock solid, but she is the most-likely ringleader."

"He's right, Lieutenant," Randel mumbled. "It'll be bad enough, him learning that his daughter is ... bringing back the most horrible parts of the war. Falsely accusing him..." he raised his broad shoulders in an uneasy shrug.

"Well then, Corporal, how would you proceed?"

"M...ma'am? I don't ... I don't know about nobles, ma'am."

"But you know about soldiers, and he is one. You heard that bitch," the three men drew back at her hissing tone, "he's more warrior than noble."

"I'd tell him straight out, ma'am. But away from the daughter. If she's in front of him, she'll influence his reaction."

"He'll be compelled to defend her," Martis nodded. "I agree with the Corporal."

"Looks like we're followin' the Big Guy, then."

The Lieutenant looked down, then at the sky, then she turned - legs straight and strong, shoulders tight - to face them. "Okay. Pumpkin Scissors, we have our mission: Stop this monster who calls herself a noble and a woman and bring her to justice!"

"Ma'am!"


	12. 12: Crumble

Chapter 12

Crumble

He was still confused about how it all fell apart. It should have been straight forward, if not simple or clean. The whole mission was dirty, no question. The theft, the bandits, the bodies. Dirty. Any crime involving nobles was dirty. But this was just...

They made it to the mansion with no problems. Entered with no problems. Even the discussion with the Lord was calm. Considering.

The man had been crippled in the fighting. Lost a leg at the hip, one eye, the better part of his nose, and most of his hair. He was lost in the war. Randel had seen it in many other veterans. Until he'd met Alice, he had stumbled on the twisted path of returning to civilian life, too.

It was obvious that Randel had never been as lost as this man. Randel was calmed by the time away from the omnipresent smell of gunpowder and having blood stain his fingernails. Randel hadn't loved the war. This man had. He had left his heart on the dusky killing fields.

A warrior; no question. Some men just weren't built for anything but fighting. Randel had no doubt that this man had been a man made to fight and that his unmaking was killing him moment by moment. Randel understood that as well. Everyone who looked at him, the size and strength of him, the scars and darkness of him, saw a warrior. What he might have been without the war was as dead. As dead as this broken man's future.

As dead as those girls.

All of Randel's understanding made questioning the Lord about his daughter's crimes ... difficult. The man barely remembered he had a daughter. Concern for her actions was non-existent.

"Sir," Randel prompted while the Lieutenant trembled with repressed irritation and fury, "are you saying that you are okay with what she has done? These are your people..."

"My people, yes, but ... yes. My people." His eyes dulled and the Lieutenant jumped on the weakness.

"Lord Pampelle. On your honor and the oaths we, as nobles and soldiers, swore to the defense of the Empire, you _cannot_ condone such atrocities."

It was unclear which word it was that brought the man back from his haze, but those hazel eyes regained a fraction of light, and they focused on the fire and strength of the Lieutenant.

"My daughter... she was so young, you see, when my Lilliella passed," the hazel clouded and Randel thought they might lose him again. Then both sublieutenants cleared their throats, and the man twitched back into awareness. "She was so young, Clotilda. Then, it was grief, you see, that drove me to the front lines. I was good, it does not shame me to admit, as the Lord of my lands and an officer above all those stationed here. I held my territory against those fools who considered my place a path to the heart of the Empire. But it wasn't enough. I fled for the worst battleground I could find, and it was there that I found some relief, some moments where I could exist without an image of my wife blurring my vision until I saw naught but the hazy world of my own tears."

"Lo-" the Lieutenant's impatience was getting the better of her, but Martis set a firm hand on her shoulder and she closed her mouth over her irritation. Randel wondered at the emotions stirring in her face. Usually, he thought, a tale like the one Lord Pampelle was telling would at least garner the Lieutenant's attention, even if she did not ultimately agree with the teller.

"So Clotilda was left alone in this place. No mother. No father. Only herself and her servants. It made her ... I returned, not many times, but I did return. I remembered her, and I did return. She looks little like my Lilliella, and so it is not a trial to look on her face. And it is a beautiful face. It calmed me to see her. It gave me strength. It gave me a reason, _she_ gave me a reason to fight beyond that of my own sorrow. My beautiful daughter. My beautiful daughter..."

"Lord," Randel prompted, "what would make her do something like this?"

"Vanity," the Lord echoed Alice's earlier statement. "She is beautiful. There is no questioning it. No one ever questioned, questioned, it. She was the little queen of this castle for years, alone. Nothing but her and those charged to serve her. She dealt with the grief of her mother's passing in her own way, though perhaps it was not so different from my own... She chose to flee from the sweet, open child she had been. She drew back, drew away, so that nothing could touch her. She did only what pleased her, and listened only to those who flattered her ... her vanity.

"I didn't see it at first. How could I? Seeing her as little as I did? Then I come back, my men following me. Men, ha! Boys. Boys only, with eyes and blood. I'm no fool. But what can I do," he asked, but without a real question in his tone, "with _this body_?"

"So, these men, ex-soldiers talked her into this?" Oreldo had a neutral expression, but Randel thought there was something hidden behind it, a shadow in the eyes, a crease around the lips.

"No. No. No." He was a man filled with defeat, and Randel could see how that hurt him. The Lord wanted to say yes, but the honor of a true noble, of a warrior, was too strong in him, and so he spoke only the truth. Randel, and he thought the Lieutenant and all the others, were humbled by it. "No one talked Clotilda into anything. She had gone so long, living in this mansion, a queen in her castle, with no one but servants to love her. The moment a man turned his eyes on her and recognized her beauty, she was, I dare say she was, lost to a feeling of power."

"And they could look upon no other," Alice said, "without her jealousy following. She killed those girls-"

"Not with her own hands," the Lord said, fighting for the girl even while knowing there was nothing he could do to save her.

"No, but she killed them none the less. She killed them so that there would be no competition." The Lieutenant's eyes were as hard as they had ever been. She was beautiful, Randel thought. Far more beautiful than the shallow grace of the Lady Clotilda.

"And the supplies? The weapons?"

"Oh, those were their payment, of course," laughter - like a spring breeze dancing around silver bells - drifted through the large doors to join them. "Men do need more than a face to inspire loyalty, and I will give nothing more of myself than the gift of my presence. Thus, the goods. The food and the weapons. The land."

Lady Clotilda swept into the room with a grand gesture of will, which Randel suspected came from her father. That man, the Lord, seemed to shrink as she entered the room. In fact, they all seemed to step back from her. All but Alice.

"Lady Clotilda Pampelle," Alice put her hand on the hilt of her blade and took a step in the woman's direction, "by the authority granted to us by the Emperor, I Lieutenant Alice Malvin place you under arrest for murder and dereliction of duty as a Lady of this land."

The laughter filled the room once more.

"Arrest? Me? Here? Please! You are a fool if you believe you can leave this place. You and your three men. I have dozens at my beck and call. They will do as I will them, and if you do not bow to my command then I will will nothing less than the end of your life."

"And what then, Clotilda?" the lieutenant's voice was hard. "Will you string my body up? Leave me hanging in those trees? You wouldn't get away with it if you did, not that it matters. You won't have the chance because you haven't gotten away with _this_."

"Ah, _Lady Alice_," the woman sneered as she stepped up to her father's side, "so rough in your speech. So direct and without any loveliness. It is a shame to your family, but no. You would not hang among those fetching creatures. You haven't their attraction. You're a _soldier_, dear, don't you realize it? You did it to yourself, after all. One among many. It isn't your job to stand out, but to blend in. Merely a cog in the grand machine of the Empire. _Merely_." She laughed and laughed and laughed.

There was a small shine. A play of light from a window with a breezy cover. It touched something metal. Something sharp. Randel couldn't tell ... he couldn't see ... he didn't know ...

Then ... then ... then ...

Clotilda lunged. None of them expected the movement. Not even the Lieutenant. Not even him. But the Lieutenant had sharp reflexes. Randel always relied on his bulk, but Alice was far too small for that; she moved - her body moved - before she even knew what was happening.

But even that didn't make much sense. He couldn't ... she'd never before ... her instincts didn't run to the death strike. Disable. Disable. Overcome. Not death. But she easily ducked under Clotilda's swing, and in a single fluid movement slid her short sword between the young woman's ribs, piercing. Deep.

That was odd enough, but Randel saw, he clearly saw, her consciousness catch up with her actions. Clotilda's hand opened from surprise and shock and pain. Her body swayed forward and left.

And Lieutenant Alice Malvin leaned into the woman, removed the sword, and then slid it into her stomach.

A second wound. A decisive wound. A cold-eyed wound.

The room and all those in it were silent as they watched Lady Clotilda slide off of the blade and crumble to the lush, emerald rug lying under her.

A breath, wet and bubbling with blood. A second. A third. Wide eyes and skin the color of bleached vellum.

There was no fourth breath.

The front of Alice' sand-colored uniform was splashed liberally with red. Her breathing was calm. Even. Her eyes were narrowed and hard. Her skin flushed with the activity.

Randel had seen her fight. Many times he had watched her exercise her strength and sense of justice against a wide array of opponents. But he had never seen her kill. Her soul, as she saw it, was one of a soldier. He, and likely the Lord also, would see it more as the soul of a modern officer. A fair and good noble. The soul of justice. Not a soldier. Not like him.

Nothing like him.

Before today he could not have imagined her - and he had tried - existing in the same theatres of combat that he had called home. That was not the woman she was.

That was not his Alice.

But there she stood, solid and real as death, over a corpse. A criminal. An awful, awful criminal. And the attacker.

Defense against a mass murderer.

But there was blood on her cheeks. But there was blood on her blade. But she had _killed_. And the blue in her eyes was a cursed spirit. A horror.

Was this somehow, as so many things were, his fault?

* * *

AN: To burg and Old Testament, thank you both for reviewing. I will do what I can with chapter length. Just trying to get them out as soon as possible, and up until now that has meant shorter chapters. Hopefully they'll be longer from here on out.


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